You run into a friend at the grocery store.
“Hey, how are you? How’s life?”
“Good. You know… busy.”
You sigh and nod understandingly.
Busy. Enough said.
Ugh. Busy feels like such a terrible way to live.
I can’t speak for the rest of the world, but in the United States, busyness still seems like a badge of honor in a lot of circles. I wore that badge proudly for a long time, calling it a “good work ethic.”
Here are some examples:
In my 30s, busyness looked like a 10-hour (or longer) workday in my home office, eating lunch while I worked (if I remembered to eat at all), cooking and cleaning up after dinner, which was usually eaten in front of the TV with a glass (or so) of wine. I watched two or three shows, grateful for the no-pressure relief of fictitious entertainment, my brain exhausted after a full day of staring at a computer monitor. Then off to bed. Get up and repeat.
Does that sound familiar to you?
I told myself that is what I had to do to succeed: work long hours, deliver excellence, every day. There wasn’t time to slow down and enjoy life.
In my 40s, I gratefully spent fewer hours at the computer, as I had less writing and editing work, and spent more time selling my photography art alongside the creations of 80 other local artists—picking up products from local makers and vendors, delivering orders, setting up exhibits, manning the market booth or the gallery (or both). I was on the road a lot, and honestly, I enjoyed most of those activities. But since I wasn’t making much money, I didn’t feel safe to rest. So I kept pushing, and I burnt out. I decided a full-time job working for someone else would feel more stable and less stressful—and for several years, it did.
Now in my 50s, I am blessed to have the opportunity to sit here and write. I’ve dreamed of writing a memoir since my graduate writing program, and now I have the time. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Days completely free to do what I want.
And yet, a specter of that busyness badge sometimes pokes at me when I want to read a novel or go hiking or explore a nearby town:
You should do that call about marketing. Get the free advice while you can.
You paid for that program. You should go to more of the calls, get your money out of it.
You should have the whole house organized by now. You’re here all the time.
Just yesterday, I felt compelled to tell my husband that I emptied the dishwasher and took the box of donations to the collection center. Why?
Because for so many years I associated my worth with what I did. If I did nothing with tangible results that I could point to, what was my value? What was I contributing to the world? Was I a waste of oxygen, a burden to my loved ones?
Now, I do know that my worth is in my very Being-ness. Nothing I do (or don’t do) makes me more (or less) valuable in the eyes of God (or Creator, Universe, Love, whichever term works for you).
But in the eyes of humans, including me? I’m obviously still working on that one.
The habit of busyness, of proving… it’s a doozy.
What has been your experience with busyness? Do you feel you have to prove yourself through what you do, to earn your rest or fun?